


singing songs in exile

by lanyon



Category: Captain America (2011), Marvel (Movies)
Genre: Barebacking, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-27
Updated: 2012-06-27
Packaged: 2017-11-08 17:25:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/445650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanyon/pseuds/lanyon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Soldier plays the piano. It’s disconcerting, the first time Steve hears it, in a disused music room, full of perfectly tuned instruments on a quiet floor of the Avengers Mansion. The Winter Soldier is sitting at the baby grand and he is playing Rachmaninoff with his eyes closed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	singing songs in exile

**Author's Note:**

  * For [haipollai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/haipollai/gifts).



> +After the few millisecond glimpse of Sebastian Stan sitting at a piano in the latest previews for _Political Animals_ , haipollai planted this idea in my head. This one's for you, darling.  
> +Warnings for Bucky being a demanding bastard.  
> +Title from Grant Lee Buffalo's _The Whole Shebang_.

This is how Steve Rogers remembers Bucky Barnes: devil-may-care but with perfect hair. Always clean-shaven, except on Saturdays and Sundays. He rubbed his palm over his chin and said that girls liked a bit of stubble, as though Steve had any idea what that meant. Bucky Barnes was not a subtle man, least not how Steve remembers it or not until the Howling Commandos, when Bucky was observant and insightful and cut a swathe through Schmidt’s crumbling plans. 

The Winter Soldier plays the piano. It’s disconcerting, the first time Steve hears it, in a disused music room, full of perfectly tuned instruments on a quiet floor of the Avengers Mansion. The Winter Soldier is sitting at the baby grand and he is playing Rachmaninoff with his eyes closed.

When he opens his eyes and sees Steve, he smiles. He is Bucky again, running his hand through his hair, which is long now, and unkempt. He holds up his metal hand.   It was one of the ways the Red Room trained me, he says. To ensure full functionality and sensitivity and - he waves his hand - delicacy of touch. 

Steve’s eyebrows rise.

 It’s true, says Bucky. I sat at my lessons every day, like a good boy.

You were never a good boy, says Steve, at last.

The corners of Bucky’s mouth are downturned.

You’re one of the best men I know, says Steve. You can play piano. 

(You can kill a man from a mile away, he doesn’t say.)

I’m left-handed now, says Bucky. He plays scales and arpeggios. He doesn’t look away from Steve. I can do all kinds of things with my left hand. 

He holds it up. Embedded in the palm, without distorting the shape, there is a repulsor. Oh, Tony. 

Do you know what happens if Stark and I fire at each other at the same time? Bucky asks.

Steve doesn’t want to know. 

Well, don’t go up to the penthouse living room, then. Rhodey says he’s done it before. The two of them have. War Machine is an awesome name. I’d like to be War Machine.

You’re the Winter Soldier, says Steve.

Is that all I am to you, Stevie? 

Steve ducks his head and he blushes. You know that’s not true. 

Bucky lifts his chin and they are diametrically opposed. Come here, he says. 

I outrank you, boy, says Steve, drawing his tongue over his lower lip. 

Bucky laughs. Aye-aye, captain.   His smile is wicked. He blows his hair out of his eyes. Come here. 

Steve would resist but he is powerless. It is just as well the Winter Soldier loves him and can no longer abide the thought of killing him. Steve is a willing victim. 

You are incorrigible, he murmurs, reaching out to run his fingers through Bucky’s hair, though he has no recollection of his feet carrying him from the doorway to this point. You are insatiable. 

You love it, says Bucky. He tilts his head back and Steve leans down to kiss him, upside down and awkward and not nearly enough.

 Bucky turns on the piano stool so that he is facing Steve, bracketing him with his legs, and he raises an eyebrow. Steve sinks to his knees, nuzzling the front of Bucky’s t-shirt, on which there is a slogan that might be ironic. Bucky’s legs part further and now Steve’s teeth are tugging lightly at Bucky’s inseam, the denim rough under his lips. Steve’s hands do not fumble or shake when he unbuckles Bucky’s belt, when he unzips Bucky’s jeans, when he draws Bucky’s cock out.

Suck it, says Bucky, unnecessarily. 

Steve is good at this. He is a fast learner but he always has been, even before the serum. He knows that Bucky likes it when he uses his hand and when he teases him, tongue swirling, dragging along the underside. Steve likes it, too, and he never thought he would. Bucky says it’s the only way to keep Steve quiet in bed. 

The thing is, Bucky likes it when Steve is loud. He pushes him back and now Steve is on his back on the floor and Bucky stands up and steps out of his jeans, toeing off his shoes and socks. He wipes at his face with the bottom of his t-shirt before peeling it off and those are Steve’s dog-tags around Bucky’s neck, a weight and a reminder of who he is. There is a faint sheen to Bucky’s skin, like he’s already been sweating, and he says that Rach 3 will do that to a body.

Steve wonders if Bucky hears all the other instruments when he plays. 

I want to fuck you, says Bucky. His metal fingers are in Steve’s mouth and Steve sucks on them, for all the good it will do. 

I don’t think this is what Stark had in mind when he talked about lubricating the joints, says Steve, muffled.

I think this is exactly what he had in mind, says Bucky and he tugs at Steve’s sweatpants with one hand. He digs into the pocket of his discarded jeans and pulls out a sachet of lube. He was never a Boy Scout but - 

And: let’s not talk about Stark. 

And: get on your knees. 

Steve braces himself using the piano stool. Bucky settles behind him. The metal is never as cold as Steve expects and his head lolls back against Bucky’s shoulders and his lips and mouth are suddenly so very dry and he whispers, please.

Please? Bucky’s voice is a low rumble through Steve’s back, wrapping around his lungs and reverberating through his heart. 

Please, more, says Steve. There is pain. It is unavoidable. Steve needs it. 

He hears Bucky hissing and then Bucky’s hands are on Steve’s hips, thumbs reaching to part his cheeks and the metal hand is slick and slippery and Bucky’s breath is stuttering against the back of Steve’s neck. 

There is a - 

_Oh._

Bucky pushes in slowly, as though they have all the time in the world, as though he is not the most impatient man Steve has ever met. He bites down on Steve’s shoulder. He reaches around and it is never as cold as Steve expects, even when he is so hot and fit to burn. 

Buckybuckybucky. Yes. There-

Steve is filled by Bucky. He is stretched to bursting and his fingers curl over the edges of the piano stool, which is made of some dark wood that is probably entirely unsustainable. The fine grain coarsens beneath his tight grip and his forearms rest on the pale satin of the seat cushion. 

Steve.

Bucky moves, his fingers not quite tight enough, and he moves, ramming into Steve like he can’t get enough. Steve begs, pleads for more, promises he can take it, and Bucky’s thighs are pressed against the back of his and it becomes brutal and fast and he can feel Bucky’s teeth digging into the skin of his shoulder again and Bucky is always so quiet when he comes, and Steve is loud and hoarse and reaches back with one hand to grip Bucky’s hip and he comes over his stomach, the piano stool and, oh god, the piano. 

Steve is filled by Bucky. When Bucky pulls out, Steve whimpers, and now the insides of his thighs are sticky, Bucky’s come trickling down and Steve presses his thighs together. Bucky wraps around him from behind, pressing his nose against the side of Steve’s neck, whispering that Steve is perfect.

Steve doubts that he’s perfect. He’s just reduced a spindly-legged piano stool to sawdust and torn, stained satin. 

‘s cool, Steve, murmurs Bucky, his fingers scritching over Steve’s lower abdomen. The distressed look is totally in, he says. 

 

(When Tony sees the state of the music room the next day, distressed doesn’t even cover it.)


End file.
